Sleep by Numbers
by Alias424
Summary: You don't know how it happens. (Well you do. You're not a complete moron. But it's just too easy to let it—and better to feign ignorance.) But somehow or another, you just keep ending up sleeping together.


**A/N:** Hi. So it's been about 85 years. But I found these fic bits I'd jotted down ages ago and they somehow became this really long (for me, at least) story. I hope it's not too rusty. and thanks so much for reading!

* * *

You don't know how it happens.

(Well you do. You're not a _complete _moron. But it's just too easy to let it—and better to feign ignorance.)

But somehow or another, you just keep ending up sleeping together.

(Emphasis on the _sleeping_—strongly, indelibly, and triple-underlined).

Beds, couches, the passenger seat of her car. It's like she has this pull on you (and also some strange relation to Mr. Sandman).

And sure, friends wake up in the same bed on a semi-regular basis all the time. Seriously. So maybe most of them are still in college dorm rooms or living that millennial constant-party lifestyle, and you are a regular, boring, middle-aged grown up with a proper job you have to get to every morning. (And she is your _friend_ and a certified genius and the goddamned chief medical examiner—and so so so far out of your league you're not even both playing sports, let alone the same one.)

Later, if you stop to think about them, the excuses seem so ridiculous and flimsy.

_I'm too tired to drive. _(Yeah, okay, but you got here didn't you? And you were just as tired then.)

_Can't move, too comfy. _(Come _on_, you're not even trying now.)

_I shouldn't have had that last beer._ (Okay, that one's actually legit—way to be responsible.)

_But there's only one bed..._ (You idiots.)

So you let it happen.

Even though she's your friend and that's so important it's like breathing—to break that would be unthinkable (and you really would die a little inside, slowly and terribly, and you know too much about the after-effects of wounds like those).

It's part laziness and exhaustion. Part want (maybe some need—though you'll admit to neither). And mostly because this easy progression is like a freight train going down a steep hill in the dead of night, and you couldn't stop it if you tried.

Okay.

So it happens. And has happened. And will keep happening.

If you're going to insist on doing this (and it's not like you have much fucking choice in the matter), then there has to be rules. Loads of them. Written down and numbered and memorised so you can recite them on command.

And they will make this okay and not-weird and just-between-friends.

Follow them, and maybe you won't go completely crazy. (Follow them, and you'll need a padded cell.)

Now, the first three are both obvious and dead-simple. Any living being with an ounce of self control should be able to fall in their formation, and you've made it through the damn police academy so you've hopefully a better shot than most.

Rule Number 1 about sleeping together: We do _not _talk about sleeping together.

In fact, we don't even fucking call it that. It's… sharing a bed (or couch or other flat-ish surface), or… co-sleeping? waking up together?… fuck it, it's sleeping together. Fine.

Do _not _talk about it.

Rule Number 2?

(No, it's _not _'we do not talk about sleeping together.' Are you a child? Do you need everything repeated fifteen times? Surely by now you can follow simple instructions.)

(Even if maybe, just maybe, you really really don't fucking want to.)

Rule Number 2: No touching!

Makes sense, right? That one might even be more important than Rule 1.

Rule Number 3: Never fall asleep first.

* * *

Play it cool if you want, but that sound?—the one that's a cross between stuck-pig and rusty chainsaw? Totally you, hot stuff.

You can't exactly deny it either as you choke upright—with all the grace of a mud-wallowing hippopotamus—legs tangled in a blanket, cushion flying (though to be honest, it's 8/10, because you're lucky you didn't come crashing down on your face). There's the lingering scent of disinfectant and a mask of something vaguely orange-ish and spicy that is heady and confusing and oddly comforting all at once.

You'd recognise it anywhere. (It's easy enough to ignore the way that alone, the scent of a single breath of air, can ease your breathing and bring you nearly to your surroundings.)

Your eyelids feel like sandpaper. Your arms and legs attached to puppet strings. And your back like it belongs to a 90-year-old lady (who stoops and walks with a cane, but she'll be damned if she misses her weekly bridge club).

Fucking perfect.

_Get some sleep_, they said. _It'll help_, they said. And so far it's done nothing but made you feel like you've been hit by a truck that pushed you into a swampy river where you were immediately attacked by a family of swans (vicious creatures, for sure).

It's somehow both too bright and not quite bright enough for you to see anything (you can nearly see the _gone fishin'_ sign hanging behind your eyelids). So you blink furiously, rubbing your eyes with the heels of both hands.

You have such a fucking headache.

'I thought that was the least comfortable couch in all of human existence?'

Everything starts to click into place—the cogs slowly turning, gears grinding in protest.

Maura.

(Always.)

Sitting across from you like something out of a 40s film, stockinged legs curled up underneath her and those ridiculously fancy red-bottomed heels discarded on the floor, one tipped as if in surrender. She had her hair pinned up today, though a few strands have fallen as the hours took their toll, and you realise you like it that way, the thought smacking you suddenly in the face as you fight not to reach across the table between you to tuck back a loose strand.

(Your hands wouldn't manage the motion anyway—you're nowhere near that smooth.)

Cosy Maura is one of your favourite Mauras. (Though really are there any that aren't?) She's softer this way, her guard slightly down, and you can never help thinking that this is something that's yours and yours alone. You fit here, the perfect puzzle piece, even with all your untamed hair and wild energy, and _god_, she really _does _look pretty today….

(Focus, idiot.)

Because you're always one with a quick comment, but your usual banter seems to have given up the ghost with Maura smiling softly in that all-knowing way in her darkened office—because that blanket over your legs wasn't there when you'd flopped onto the couch god-knows-when-ago, and Maura's been careful to angle the lamp beside her to only light the file she holds in her lap, and it's all starting to feel a bit like….

(You need to get yourself together You're impossible right after you wake up.)

'It is.' You balk at the sound of your own voice and clear your throat, hoping it'll make you sound less like a dying frog. (Sexy_._) 'But that ancient couch in the break room is full of creaky springs and like a thousand old farts so….'

(Even sexier. You're on a roll.)

Maura wrinkles her nose at the thought. 'You should go home. It's late.'

Well, yeah, but the case and that little girl and the gut-wrenching sadness in her brother's eyes…. 'So should you.'

Maura purses her lips and frowns (It's fucking adorable.), slowly closing the file to place it on the table between you. 'How much sleep have you gotten in the last 48 hours?'

(She's not messing around.)

You don't want to think about the answer.

'Enough?'

'Jane….'

Your eyes roll automatically. It's really the only defense you have against that soft voice, laced with concern and something like... (don't you dare even _think _it)... and the way no one's ever quite managed to make your name sound like that before. The tips of your ears feel warm, and you hope the colour doesn't spread to your cheeks and give you away.

'Not enough. I'm fine.' There's too much bite there and you think better of it, losing yourself in the concern that crinkles Maura's forehead, your voice softening. 'We'll crack this case and I'll be fine.'

Maura nods, and for a split-second it seems to stand for both a _you are _and _we will be_ as she rises, trailing a hand across the table to nudge her files closer to the couch—the simple movement so easy and _we've got this_ that you feel your breath catch in your throat. Then your legs are rising and falling again, Maura settling underneath them before you even process what's happening. The blanket rests over you both, and thank God for that or the hand that comes to rest on your legs would have your knee burned and blistered.

(Well there goes that then—and don't try to pretend you couldn't have stopped it even if you wanted to.)

'Lack of sleep affects your ability to remember and process information. You aren't doing yourself or the victim any favours by working yourself too hard.'

'I know, I know.'

You swallow. Close your eyes. Both out of sheer exhaustion and because Maura's thumb has started tracing small circles and you can feel them tattoo into your skin, wonder what marks will be there when you pull all the layers of fabric away, because you'll carry the feel of this forever.

'Maura?'

'Hmm?' It's a soft sound that wraps around you more securely than the blanket, the warmth radiating.

'Wake me up in five minutes?'

The only response is a quick squeeze of your knee, the slow circles spreading down your calves.

(Oh, it's hopeless now.)

You sleep like the dead for over an hour.

Maura is still there.

* * *

Rule Number 4: Constant vigilance!

(You're a cop. A damned detective, even. You should be able to manage this, at least.)

* * *

All you know right now with absolute crystal-clear fucking certainty is that you need a mop.

Desperately.

It's not a life-or-death situation. Yet. But it's getting there.

Okay, so maybe the details of _why_ are a little fuzzy. And if you actually stop to think about it, it makes no sense at all to have any sort of mop-related emergency, since you haven't cleaned your floors in like… ever.

But it's not like that matters when all you know is that if you don't get that mop right here, right now, bad things will happen. Very very bad things. That idea alone claws at you… oddly _loudly_.

Very very loudly.

' —IT SWEEPS, IT CLEANS, IT GLIDES, IT SHINES! IT'LL GET YOUR CAT'S HAIR, YOUR DOG'S HAIR, YOUR MOTHER-IN-LAW'S HAIR! IF YOU SPILL IT, DROP IT, BREAK IT, OR MAKE IT, THE ONE-OF-A-KIND SPONGE-LIKE STRANDS ON THE EXTRA-GLOW MAGIC MOP'S UNIQUE HEAD WILL CLEAN IT LIKE NEW. BUT THEY'RE GOING FAST, SO ACT NOW! GET ONE FOR YOUR MOM, YOUR DAD, YOUR UNCLE, YOUR—'

The brightly-coloured flash of the TV in the otherwise darkened room is like a strobe light (brings you back to all those middle school dances, because you wouldn't be caught dead at prom)—white, dark, red, white, _bluedarkgreen_—and all your movements seem stop-motion and stuttered as you try to remember where you are or what the hell you were doing.

(Pepperoni breath…. Pizza? And the Sox? Or maybe the Celtics? There's a good chance it might've also been some nature documentary about lions, because all you remember is aggression and competition and survival of the fittest—which could fit for almost any of them, really.)

'Why are these stupid things always on in the middle of the fucking night….' You fish for the remote, grumbling curses under your breath (because if that won't help find it, nothing will).

The blankets shift and sigh.

Cop alarm kicks in first (thank God you've still got that). Familiarity dawning just a split-second before—

'Regularly depletion.' It's said thick with sleep and a little hum of a yawn at the end.

(They might be your two new favourite words, nevermind that you've no clue what they mean together.)

And it suddenly occurs to you that this cozy familiar space with the big-ass TV and the very expensive (and shockingly comfortable) couch, is not yours. (It's too easy to forget that this is a place in which you simultaneously do and don't belong. Not wholly.)

(Not yet.)

'What?'

Your brain feels fuzzy with lint and static, and not nearly as much of that is due to the sudden waking as it should be. Because here you both are (again), like mirrors on opposite ends of _not-_your couch, in _not-_your house, tangled together under _not-_your blankets, and it feels so startlingly like all this is right and wanting and _yours _that when it catches you off guard like this, you feel your eyes itch and the pressure build behind them. Because when you wiggle your toes and stretch your legs, there's the cosy warmth and softness of Maura half-buried beneath you, and it shouldn't feel….

(As if you're five years into a happy marriage and everything is exactly as it should be? Maybe if you'd stop falling asleep like a pair of adorable old ladies and actually get the guts to—)

Maura yawns again, tries to extricate her hand from the blankets to stifle it, but can only turn to half-bury her face in the couch instead. She seems to take longer to translate her science through her less-than-genius filter, but of course she does find the words eventually, even if they are half mumble. 'Fatigue makes us think we've thought things through more thoroughly than we have so we're more likely to be influenced.'

'—ACT NOW! DON'T HESITATE! THIS ONCE IN A LIFETIME OPPORTUNITY IS GOOOOOING GOOOOING G—'

You find the remote and hit the off button quicker than you've ever done anything else in your life, tipping the room into the almost-darkness of the streetlights and full moon streaming in through the windows.

This is somehow worse, something bewitching in the moonlight that has Maura shining across from you, a streak of muted light falling perfectly across her face, her eyes bright as she blinks them sleepily.

'Seems like bullshit if you ask me.'

(Maybe if you just keep telling yourself that….)

Maura shakes her head. You feel it in the twitch of her legs against yours more than anything. It's a strange thing, this half-dark 2am language between you. A sigh or slight motion speaks volumes, the actual words so much less.

'There's a science to infomercials. Regularly depletion. Decision fatigue. They even take a drop in dopamine levels into account when—'

'Maura?'

A yawn. You're actually not sure whose it is.

'Yes, Jane?'

You're having trouble thinking—exhaustion will do that to you (and so will other things).

'You're going to put us both back to sleep.' It comes out far gentler than you expect, as if the tone isn't meant for those words at all.

(But you're suddenly not that tired anymore, are you?)

'I find it fascinating.'

'You always do. C'mon.' It's tough going, but you manage to untangle yourself from the nest of blankets and cushions and each other, jumping up before you can talk yourself out of moving altogether. 'This couch isn't exactly big enough for the both of us.'

You hold out a hand to Maura, who takes it without hesitation (always).

The mechanics here should be simple: pull up, she stands, let go (say goodnight, go home, toss and turn, fall asleep just before your alarm goes off, start not-at-all-fresh tomorrow).

'Oh!' Maura gasps, flailing as her legs seem to give out from beneath her.

You catch her—because you're not a monster (and there's no way in hell you'd let her fall)—and a muffled _oof _warms your chest as she falls into you. You're wildly unprepared for both the sound and the way the accompanying movement brings you flush together—two steps in any direction and you'd be dancing. It's Maura who's faltering but you're the one who feels all left feet and without a fucking clue as to what to do with your hands—as if you've never held, or hell, even touched another human before. (And even though you have, clearly, and even this human in particular, it somehow feels miles different when she's sleep-warm and drowsy and is leaning just-so into your chest.)

'Paresthesia.'

'Paris-what-now?' The words ruffle through Maura's hair.

'Nerves misfiring. Sudden access to blood flow interpreted as -'

'Pins and needles.'

'Colloquially, yes.' Maura lets you take her weight, her arms linking around your neck (your heart is an old stick of dynamite, no telling when it might explode out of your ribcage—there's no way Maura doesn't feel it against her).

Sleepy Maura is adorable—a little bit drunk on exhaustion and moonlight, she speaks and touches without thinking, is comfortable just as she is. The science is there—could never not be—but the filters are rusty. (You've never seen anything more beautiful in your life.) It occurs to you then how much effort this woman puts into fitting into the world outside her lab—how she's constantly translating herself into something that you'll understand.

So you pull your arm tighter around Maura's back and stand still. So so still (minus the flutter of your pulse like a hummingbird's wing). And you breathe in, deep and slightly shaking, finding the floral-citrus scent of her shampoo (it's always somehow reminded you of bright summer days in childhood—orange tang and sunshine and a flower-fresh breeze as you whizz down the street on your bike).

One breath.

Two.

Three and….

(You swear you feel Maura smile into the cotton of your t-shirt, feel her nuzzle in close to you as her arms tighten ever-so-slightly around your neck.)

She's gone, then, stepping back and blinking up at you, hair mussed from the unexpected sleep and the faint imprint of the stitching from the couch cushions red on her cheek. Your hand is still at the small of her back, lingering just long enough before you force it to let go.

(You somehow resist the urge to reach out and brush your fingers _justso_, know that if you did, Maura would lean into you and….)

(_Do it! Do it!_)

'My nerve pathways have returned to normal.'

'Good,' you reply, (very stupidly—because it's not at all, is it? with her _there _and not _here_?). 'It ok if I crash here tonight?'

(Oh, for fuck's sake.)

'Always, Jane.' Maura smothers a yawn. 'You should know that by now.'

Her yawn catches, but the sound you make is much less graceful. It's too late for grace now (though when isn't it, really, as far as you're concerned?) and you're wiped and a little bit high on the adrenaline of suddenly waking and Maura in your arms.

So it's not at all helpful, really, when she catches your hand and tugs.

'Whaaa-aaaawww…?' You're yawning again, too tired to resist her (would be powerless even wide awake).

'To bed,' she says, matter-of-factly, as if there isn't a perfectly good spare room or couch or mat-filled yoga studio where you could lay your head for the rest of the night.

And that's how you find yourself tripping up the stairs behind her, both disrobing just enough to toe that fine line between comfort and decency without crossing over it, and falling into her bed together, mumbling goodnight as you drift off on separate sides.

(You'll be snuggling by morning, you monsters.)

* * *

Rule Number 5: Don't get too comfortable.

(There isn't much hope for you at all.)

* * *

The sheets beside you are empty, but haven't lost all their warmth, and you can hear dishes clinking in the downstairs-distance, the tell-tale sign of Maura's better-than-the-barista's-coffee machine firing up. So you sit up, luxuriating in the pull of muscles as you stretch your arms over your head, and decide, with a grimace, that you really _really _need a shower.

Quick enough, and you can be done before the coffee's ready.

(Well, look at that—it's almost like you have a fucking routine now. Excellent.)

It's easy enough to fly through your morning ablutions. It's not like you ever take more than five minutes in the shower anyway.

(Well, that's not _exactly_ true, is it…? But you're not _that_ comfortable in this space.)

(Yet.)

A familiar set of footsteps thuds up the stairs, the sound muffled by those adorably fuzzy slippers that seem so unlike something she should own. You have just enough time to yank yesterday's t-shirt over your head—the smell's not too bad, and you've a backup at the station—and try to wring the water out of your hair before it soaks your shirt through.

'Full disclosure, Maur,' you call just as you know she'll appear in the doorway, two cups of coffee in her hands. There's the thud of one of the mugs hitting the coaster on the nightstand, the routine more practiced than either of you realise. You're still bent over, drying the ends of your hair on a towel.

'I used your deodorant.' (Again. You've gone to work smelling like her for days—you're lucky everyone's too afraid of you to say anything.) 'And your toothbrush.' (That's new.) 'I know you probably have like a billion sanitised spares in one of your million bathroom cabinets but I couldn't find one, and really—trust me when I say it's more for your sake then mine.'

(What exactly do you plan on doing, detective?)

'Exposure to germs can help to boost the immune system, and with cold and flu season approaching, you probably did both of us a favour.' It's all very matter-of-fact and Dr. Isles-y, as she gives a thoughtful shrug, watching the steam rise out of her mug.

So naturally, you pull a face, thinking better of flinging the towel in your hands onto the floor and finding its proper hook instead. (Aww, look at you, all making an effort.) 'Are you calling me germy?'

'No.' Maura hums a laugh at the thought. 'The human mouth is teeming with bacteria, and no two people have exactly the same—'

'Gross.'

'You can't always dismiss science by calling it gross, Jane.'

'I can when it's the truth.'

You trudge towards her and nab your coffee cup off the bedside table, just hard enough to jar the contents, not hard enough for any of it to spill (another weirdly practiced motion, there's only so much you can tame a Rizzoli, after all). It's better-than-perfect, as always. Whether it's from her fancy-ass machine or that sludge mixed with generic sugar packets and almost-expired milk at the station, Maura always has this knack for making your coffee better than even you know how.

It's lucky you manage to swallow any of it when you catch sight of her leaning in the doorway. She's still in her pyjamas—a matching shorts and tank top number you've developed a love-hate relationship with, as it has a tendency to shift as she sleeps and you've seen more (but not enough) of her boobs than you probably should have—with a silk robe thrown over them, the belt cinched loosely around her waist. One fuzzy slipper toes at the other, her hands curled around her mug—she likes her first cup of the day blacker than the rest, the steam still swirling as she blows softly onto the surface before taking a tentative sip. It's still just north of too hot, you can tell by the way she hums softly as she swallows, her eyes meeting yours.

And she smiles—only a slight curve of the lips, maybe, but the eyes… it's so much more in her eyes (the first smile of the morning, like her first cup of coffee, miles different than the rest).

She's a vision.

(Daaaaamn, son. You're a fucking goner.)

'You should leave a few things here.' It's so gentle, the way she says it, almost practiced—as if she's spent hours rehearsing just those words and she's still afraid they'll have you flitting away. 'I could clear out a few drawers. Or there's space in the guest room.'

(Here we go. The ball's in your court, Rizzoli. Try not to fuck it up.)

You gulp in as much air as you can, placing your mug back on the coaster and busying yourself making the bed. (The immediate urge to tidy. Yes, that's _so _like you and not awkward _at all_.) 'Wouldn't that seem a bit… domestic?'

(Is there any part about this 'arrangement' that's not? You two are living the life that every history book would like us to think about spinster roommates—_oh what lovely companions! how nice of them to look after each other when no men would want their horribly old bodies! and there is absolutely positively no fucking whatsoever, no matter what either of their diaries say_—_that's just the way people spoke back then, all flowery and lovey-dovey and as if they did, but absolutely _did NOT _really really like breasts and soft lips and having wild gay sex with their gal pals_..._._)

Maura pauses, chooses her words carefully. 'I suppose.'

'Look, if this is about the toothbrush, I'll replace it.'

(Yeah right. That thing probably costs more than your car—and your teeth feel cleaner than they ever have in your life.)

'It's just a drawer, Jane.' Her voice wraps around you like velvet. You want to let it hold you close forever. 'You can't keep going around in all those wrinkled tops that you pull out of your desk at work.'

The shift in her tone snaps through the static in the air. It's easier to breathe now and you take the out she allows you.

'You seriously overestimate my folding abilities if you think anything is going to help my wrinkled clothes.'

'Believe me, I do not.' She smiles, nods at the bed you're meant to be making, a suspicious lump under the middle of the crooked duvet. Placing her coffee on the table, Maura taps the small of your back as she passes, taking the sheets out of your hands. 'Here.'

Her robe billows as she peels the blankets back and shakes the sheets in the air, slipping down her shoulders and taking the strap of her tank top with it. You're stuck staring like an idiot, trying to remember to close your mouth.

(Bet you're loving that top of hers now, aren't you?)

You think you see stars.

* * *

Rule Number 6: Never show your hand.

(Are we still doing this? Really?)

* * *

Every nerve in your body tingles with fear and adrenaline, urging you to fight or flee, but you can do neither. Arms and legs bound or encased in cement or taser-frozen. You don't know the cause but it hardly matters when the result is the same.

You can't move. You can't fucking move. All you can do is lie there and listen and feel and see what's directly above you, every sense heightened and mixing horribly. So you can see the taste of blood, thick and metallic in your mouth, and something acrid billows in your lungs and you can hear the crackle of it even as it chokes you, every breath a rattling cough as you try to cry out, try to cover the terrible high-pitched screaming that rings in your ears, but you can't, you can't, _you can't_….

A weight on your chest, rough and heavy. And around your wrists, the knife-like burn of the zip-ties, the jab into your palms so sharp that you feel and hear it taste it everywhere….

'Jane….'

The voice is gravelly, mocking, and to say you hate it is a disservice to the word.

'It's all right, Jane.'

It twists and your ears are bleeding, the sound shears through them and your chest, and you lurch forward, finally able to move just enough, fist connecting with...

'Oh!'

Soft and surprised, but strong too, a spiderweb of a sound.

It's enough to break you.

It cuts through the blood rushing through your ears and your chest. Hands cover your fists, gentle but determined, and the fight's gone out of you now, but somehow that's okay.

'It's all right,' the voice says again, different now, the familiarity calm and comfort and love all at once.

Your eyes snap oven with a rush of air, lungs cold as they fill too fast and too sharply, the chill of sweat sending a shiver through you. The hands release yours and the softest blanket you've ever felt in your life finds its way around your shoulders, and it's almost too much, the feel of it, cloud-soft after so much sharpness, and Maura's easy breathing so close to your own.

'Just breathe.' The weight of Maura's hand on your back tethers you, the wide arches and curves it draws temper everything. 'Slower…. That's it.'

She's modelling it for you—it's a trick you know too—her own breath coming calm and easy, and you copy it because it's what she wants (and you couldn't help it if you tried).

'Maura….' It comes out like a plea, all hoarse and wrong, not your voice at all, and your hands grab at any part of her you can reach and ball into the silk of her pyjamas.

The slip of the fabric between your fingers, the way your fingernails cut through it and into your palms as your grip tightens (the steady rise and fall of Maura's stomach beneath your hands as she breathes) grounds you immediately. Even more, her hands on yours, soft and warm—your own are clammy and calloused, but you're powerless as she coaxes open your grip, laces your fingers together. You take the moment you need, letting your heartbeat relax and the room slowly slide into focus—the various shades of gray in the darkness, the radiance of her skin against yours, the distant drip of early morning rain.

'Hoyt again?'

She's close. So fucking close. When you dip your chin, your foreheads press together. (Neither of you move.)

(You're allowed this now, the closeness, the comfort—that one was a fucking ride, the worst you've had in awhile.)

'Yeah.'

What you don't tell her, what you've never told her, is that it's not just Hoyt anymore. It hasn't been for awhile.

(And if you stop to think about it—but you won't—you'd realise the timing of the shift has an awful lot to do with who's in your arms at night.)

Because Maura's there, screaming (or not screaming, which is so much fucking worse).

And the knife on her neck, that trickle of blood (the thick gush of it if too much time passes).

Her eyes—God, you've never seen anything like that look in her eyes, never want to as long as you live.

And you're powerless to stop it in time (every time).

(Jesus fucking Christ, even the thought of it….)

There's the faint smell of sweat and sleep between you, the floral punch of laundry detergent still strong on the sheets. You pull back to look at her. Maura's here and safe and solid. Her hands are in yours, fingers fidgeting slightly, one of her thumbs brushing back and forth over your own, and she's watching you with a worried wrinkle on her brow.

'Shit.' You suddenly remember, the ache of pain and memory in your knuckles as you yank your hands away. 'Did I punch you?'

'I'm fine, Jane.'

It's both an answer and not an answer, and not the one you wanted.

'Jesus.'

'You surprised me more than anything. Barely glanced off my mandible. Here.'

She's taking your hand again, lifting it to her jaw and running both your fingers over the smooth skin there. Once you're sure there's no bump or heat of a bruise, it's… well, it's pretty fucking perfect. Your fingers nearly linger when she releases them (you're lucky gravity has your back).

'No lasting harm done,' Maura assures you. 'Though I'm sure you packed quite a punch in your subconscious.'

(Adorable little thing—_You barely hit me at all, but I'm sure you fucked him up good, Jane._)

'Still.' The idea of anyone hurting her makes you sick to your stomach, the thought that it could be you…. You gather the softest blanket in the world more firmly around you. 'I'm gonna sleep in the other room.'

'You'll do no such thing.'

'Maura….'

'No. You are not your nightmares, Jane. I wouldn't banish you for them and neither will you.' Her voice is somehow both gentle and final—there will be no arguments. (And to be honest, you didn't want to move anyway.) 'Stay there.'

The mattress shifts as Maura rises, crossing the room and rifling through something in one of her drawers. She hands you a t-shirt—_your _t-shirt (from a drawer that was most decidedly _not _your drawer). 'Change into that, you're soaked through.'

An old BPD t-shirt, a bit big and soft and neatly folded—it smells of clean and Maura—and is not one of the few you remember packing into that old duffel bag you'd brought grumbling into the house a week ago and stashed in the guest closet. (You know, for _emergencies_.)

(There have been four such emergencies, since then—all of them of the _I need a shirt_ variety, hardly worth dialling for backup. Though you _do _need to remember to bring some more.)

You remember to change as she leaves the room (with assurances that she'll be right back—soft words, the squeeze of a forearm), pulling your sweaty shirt over your head and flinging it, the clean one just making it over your head as she returns with a glass of water. She makes you drink most of it before slipping back into bed beside you, pulling that safe and soft blanket over you both.

(You have sides of the bed now, you realise that, right?)

'Come here, Jane.'

You obey (because there's really no other answer).

(You think she presses her lips to your cheek as you drift off to sleep.)

* * *

Rule Number 7:... (Are you even trying anymore?)

* * *

So you're used to waking up with her now? Big fucking deal. And you'd actually find it more strange if, when you stretched out in that moment just before waking, if you _didn't _hit something warm and solid and _Maura_—or at least the warmth where she was.

(So stretch. Wake. Yes, there she is. We all know how this goes by now, you don't need to be so giddy about it.)

Maura's nose wrinkles. Eyes fluttering. Waking before her is unusual, but it's happened before. And you take these few seconds to watch the way she comes out of sleep—small twitches of muscles, the way her breathing hitches, and her hair falls across her face.

(All very ordinary waking-up-with-your-friend-who-you-are-sleeping-with-but-not-_sleeping-with_ type shit.)

And then there's 'good morning,' sleep-thick and slightly gravelly, to match the 'hi' you manage to rasp-chuckle out.

Two more checkmarks. You're getting very predictable—nearly an old married couple, lesbian bed death and all (though for something to die it would have to have been there to begin with, yes?).

Maura smiles, trying to tuck it away in her pillow with a slight turn of her head.

You blink.

And she's kissing you. A hand on the back of your head and tangling in your hair as she pulls you closer, so there can be no mistake about it.

Which is where ordinary becomes something else entirely.

Her lips are soft as they brush yours, but there isn't time to revel in the finer detail of it, because she's gone just as quickly, and it doesn't even occur to you to protest (because you're not quite sure you're _here _to begin with). She's watching you carefully when your eyes finally focus, an almost shy smile tugging at her lips, and you can only breathe her in, trying to figure out if your temperature has spiked high enough in the past four seconds for this to be considered a fever dream.

But that's her hand, still at the back of your neck and the phantom feel of her lips like silk against your rough and chapped ones. And as awareness and the sun dawn, the room seeming brighter even in just these few moments, there are several ways you expect this to play out.

The awkward apology—complete with hurriedly gathered things and breezing out the door. (And even worse, the return to your own cold and lonely bed later.)

The not-so-awkward apology—where there's some laughter and rolled eyes that basically stand for _and let us never speak of this again—of what?—exactly._

The Maura-pedia. Something about the brain and REM cycles and big words that you haven't a chance in hell of understanding this early.

The _I have to go to the bathroom._ Self explanatory. And true. A useful diversion, possibly leading to a disappearing act. Who knows.

Maura's bottom lip is caught between her teeth, her fingers tapping out a rhythm on your skin—and you're such a fucking chicken, about to choose 4 and be done with it, when a different scenario comes into play.

Number 5.

(All hail Number 5)

A swift intake of air (Maura's).

A small sound of surprise (yours).

Her hand tightening at the base of your skull and pulling as her mouth finds yours again.

(Thank fucking Jesus.)

And you don't exactly pull away.

(Which is a very downplayed way to say you throw an arm around her back and breathe her in and kiss her back like it's some kind of competition and you'll be damned if you don't win, thank you very much.)

To be fair to Maura, she'd tried for soft, and it was at first, like the sunrise through a spring shower.

To be fair to you, there'd been weeks of increasing closeness and shared breaths and skin and goddamned _snuggling_, and you had your head so far up your own ass, you didn't realise how far you'd gone out of your mind.

Not that Maura seems to care, that you've taken this quiet _good morning _and exploded it like a thousand roman candles. Because that strangled sound comes from the back of her throat and she's holding you _soclose_ with clawing fingers and it's her tongue that wets your lips first—and when you open to her you're pretty fucking sure you actually _are _going to explode like so many sparks of colour dancing across the sky.

(And really, if you asked anyone, it's about damned time.)

So when she pulls back again, you can't help the groan of frustration, the way your arm tightens around her and your leg hooks over hers for good measure.

'I haven't brushed my teeth,' she moans, both in horror and because now that you've tasted her you can't seem to stop, and your mouth is slowly travelling the curve of her jaw.

'Seriously?' You swipe your tongue against her earlobe and pull back just far enough to see her face—because yes, _seriously_, almost always. 'And you think I have?'

'Well, no, but—'

''Maura Isles.' Your voice rasps lower than even you thought possible (and by the way Maura's eyes widen, her chest heaves, she hadn't either). Your mouth finds her collarbone and sets up camp there. 'Don't you dare move.'

And she doesn't.

(Well, she does—but it's against you and on top of you and inside you, back arching as _Fuck, Jane…, _but you'll certainly allow for that.)

* * *

Rule…. (Oh hell, forget it.)

* * *

You'd managed to get yourselves up and out the door at some point. After all, you're both regular, boring, middle-aged grownups with proper jobs you have to get to. (And the dead may wait, but criminals and coworkers don't tend to.) You were even able to get through most of the work-day without any dalliances.

(Then what exactly did you call that thing in her office? Your tongue and her—)

Okay, okay. At least you managed to get through the day. Let's leave it at that.

So it's later. Too-late later, when a slice of the moon hangs high in the sky and you'll regret your lack of sleep in the actual sunlight-morning. And there were _finally_ no pretenses about your apartment or flimsy excuses regarding beds. Your muscles ache in all the best ways and Maura's wrapped tight around you, chest pressing into your back, a leg in between both of yours.

'Are you still awake?'

She's whisper-quiet, so as not to wake you—you'd been teetering on the edge of sleep but haven't quite fallen over.

'No.' It's an exaggerated whisper.

You feel her smile into your shoulder blade, know the gesture repeats on your own face.

'Goodnight, Jane.' She squeezes you tighter.

You bring her hand that's in yours to your lips and kiss it. 'Night, Maur.'

Some rules are only strongly-worded suggestions.

(You'd never really planned on following them anyway.)


End file.
